Sam put down the pen and sighed, glancing over his finished work: introduction, three paragraphs and a conclusion. Hardly Cicero, but it would have to do. Absently, he flexed his fingers, wondering if cracking his knuckles like Carling would help. He shuddered delicately. On the whole, probably not.

Stretching back in his seat for a moment he looked up and caught Gene’s eye. Gene raised an eyebrow and gestured at his position, touching the chair only at shoulders and hips.

“Backache, Tyler? I thought you were born to sit at a desk and write reports?” He sipped his coffee then continued. “Until the crack of doom, probably. And when that happened you’d stiffen your sinews and take notes on the Apocalypse, just for the record.”

Sam smiled and handed over his report. “It’s funny, you know, Gene, how you start to get used to things. When I first got here I’d hardly written anything for ages. You know, on the beat you’ve got your little notebook and pen, but once you’re in CID it’s all type-type-typing, all bloody day. It’s like going back in ... it’s like being a kid in school again, all this pen and ink stuff. Makes your hands ache just like English exams.”

Gene looked at him suspiciously, then moved away, strolling into his office with coffee already spilling on Sam’s efforts. In the doorway he turned to watch Sam massaging his neck and shoulders then said, “If you’re such a expert bloody typist, and God knows you’re girly enough for it - you can take down everything I say any time you like - ”

“Knickers,” muttered Sam under his breath. He knew what was coming next, and cringed at the memory.

“How come when you got here you didn’t even know what the carriage return was?”